


when they turn the sun on again

by lesbianbirds



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Poetry, Post-Apocalypse, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, various mentioned archival assistants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25931323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianbirds/pseuds/lesbianbirds
Summary: They walked in comfortable silence for a bit, close as they could be under the unending stare of the sky.or; quieter moments in the apocalypse
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	when they turn the sun on again

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'yellow' by anne sexton, poems mentioned in the fic are 'the thing is' by ellen bass and 'wild geese' by mary oliver.
> 
> set sometime in season five and pre-mag176
> 
> thank you to my beta reader @botanicallydubious!

Tim used to say that there were 'Four Rules of Jon Assholery', and one night when he was drunk and laughing, he had written them up. The slightly tattered, annotated piece of paper had hung up in the Archives for some time. Jon has it folded up in his backpack now, having taken it with him after everything. There were even more creases now, but Jon could still muster up a smile for it sometimes. Mostly it just made his chest hurt. 

Rule #2 had been that Jon was an arrogant jerk, as Sasha had loudly announced after thumping a folder down on his deck in half-joking anger. Or whatever had worn her face, twisting all of his memories up and stealing them so it could replace them with something ugly. 

He wondered if it was her real handwriting on it. It wasn’t like he’d ever know, because that dignity had been taken away from him. 

“Are you alright Jon?” came a quiet voice, a gentle touch to one arm and a soft smile when he looked down. 

“Yeah, I- I’m fine,” Jon smiled back, reaching down to take his hand, “Just thinking.” They both knew what that meant, but Martin wouldn't pry. It was generally accepted they didn’t, an unspoken rule laid at their feet. There was a lot to mourn lately, and some of that had to be done in silence. 

Martin just squeezed his hand and kept on walking and so did Jon. One foot after another, because Rule #3 was that Jon was a stubborn bastard and he wasn’t about to fail that one now. The memory of it stung - it came with a flash of a man’s face, bright and cheerful. Rule #3 had been a code to get him to sleep, to drag him outside or place a cup of tea in his hand. 

Jon kept walking. 

—

Sometimes they had to stop. Jon didn’t like it, but Martin had insisted and he had already hurt him enough. So they sat under a blinking sky, and their hands lay intertwined between them. 

There were words itching under his skin and buzzing behind his teeth, reverberating deep in his throat. Firmly locked away, because there was a warm palm against his and a low voice talking already, rambling about rhymes and poetry. Jon leant against Martin a bit, letting his solid weight support him for a second. 

It would feel a little like sitting around a campfire as a kid, if Jon knew what that was like or there was a fire or night. Instead there was cold grey ground and the sight of something horrible in the distance, just close enough to start to form in his mind. An appetiser before the main course, the taste of it just starting to-

“What were you thinking about earlier?” Martin interrupted, a little too blunt but not expecting an answer if he wasn’t willing. Then again, Jon couldn’t really talk about being too blunt. That had been Rule #4 - Jon could be an insensitive ass sometimes, as said by a still fuming Tim. It made him since inwardly even now that he was- even now. 

“Do you remember that old list Tim hung up?” Jon said instead of a too late apology to a dead man, “It used to hang up on where important notices were _supposed_ to be.”

Martin chuckled gentle, shifting himself so Jon could gently comb his fingers through his sandy hair. “Yeah, of course I do. I always liked Rule #1,” he said, jabbing a finger on the vague direction of Jon’s stomach who laughed and swatted him away. 

“I was just… I still have it, you know?” Jon breathed deeply, closing his eyes briefly against the gaze of an all-seeing sky, “It’s a reminder, I suppose.”

Martin reached up to gently cup his cheek, brushing away the beginning of a tear. It was an awkward angle, but Jon stayed perfectly still, hand frozen buried in his hair. He brushed a few strands of hair out of Martin’s eyes, trying so hard to be kind. “I miss them,” Martin said, a whisper in the midst of everything. 

Jon turned his gaze up to the eye, staring down at them. He knew exactly what it saw, he knew where the edges of reality stretched and broke. He knew where his limitations were. “Yeah. Yeah, I do too.”

—

There were two men. 

There were two men and they were walking, with aching heels and joined hands dangling between them. Their grip was tight, one’s thumb sweeping gently over the other’s knuckle. The men spoke in quiet voices, trying for an imitation of privacy when the sky had ears as well as far less metaphorical eyes. 

“Do you think Georgie and Melanie are okay?” Martin asked, tone vague in a way that indicated he had asked this question before and wasn’t expecting a new answer. Jon knew he had, because he had it catalogued away in his head along with every other question he was asked. He knew because he had been there, had answered all seven times. It was always those two, only the two out of his reach. There was no point asking about Basira or Daisy, since the answer could only be bad. 

“They have each other, don’t they?” He said instead of _I wish I knew_ , instead of _Stop asking me, please_. Because he didn’t know this, but he knew that you had to take whatever comfort you could get, no matter how cold. 

“Like we do?” Martin said it was like a joke, and Jon could imagine it bitter but instead it was just genuine. A question for a question for a question for a- 

“Yeah,” was all he said, squeezing Martin’s hand, a silent reassurance. 

_Come on, one foot in front of another. You just have to get to that… thing over there and then you rest_ , he told himself. He knew he was lying of course, but it was a tactic used to get through painful school runs and long hours studying. A constantly changing finish line, a tired runner always running after it.

He thought of Rule #3 instead of how the Hunt had done exactly that. Jon was a stubborn bastard, and he would be until… well, everything impossible had already happened. Until he died, he supposed, snorting at his own private joke. Martin smiled fondly, squeezing his hand again. 

Rule #5 had been that he was a morbid prick, and that had been said by a laugh. Jon knew (really knew, not like he did now) that his sense of humour was a bit off. His grandmother had been fond of saying sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, but Sasha had always laughed. But the memory was tainted, wasn’t it. That Sasha was just a cruel lie. 

Rule #3 has been coming in useful a lot lately. 

— 

“I will take you, I will love you, again” Martin closed the book with a thump and grinned over it at Jon, eyes lit up with some strange kind of passion. It made him want to lean forward to kiss him, so he did, a simple brush of lips and a lingering in his space. 

“...that’s better than your writing,” he said with a teasing lilt to his voice, chuckling as Martin swatted loosely at him, his own laughter barely held back.

“‘The Thing Is' by Ellen Bass is a masterpiece and I can only hope to even get close to that,” Martin said loftily, lightly flicking Jon on the shoulder. He shoved him back, laughing slightly and reaching down to take his right hand. 

“Come on, master poet,” Jon said, pulling him to his feet with a soft groan. Martin scowled, but it wouldn’t be safe to stay here for much longer. He buried his head in the crook of Jon’s shoulder and neck, taking a blessed moment of peace before he straightened again. 

“Yeah, I know,” he fiddled with the black ring on Jon’s middle finger, the little chips and scratches familiar under his touch. 

They walked in semi-comfortable silence for a bit, close as they could be under the unending stare of the sky. 

—

“Do you want another poem?” Martin asked one night - or probably night, because the sky didn’t quite work the same way anymore. Jon had insisted they kept on anyway, despite the fact they’d had to walk in bloodstained socks for weeks now. 

“Of course,” he said, because he looked more Martin than he could ever express and he loved his voice too, soft and melodious. Martin’s voice comforted him when he woke up panting, or when he retreated too far into his head. Jon had always thought people were being stupid when they talked about partner’s voices that way, but things had changed. 

Tim had sung exceptionally well and did at every chance, and Sasha had mumbled when she read something out loud. Jon held these facts close to his chest, breathed in the cool night air so he could pretend he knew the latter was true. Indisputable, precious facts so he could cradle them to his chest. 

Tim had liked pop music and slow moody love songs, crooned gently as he worked. Jon wouldn’t find it annoying if he could ever hear him just one more time. 

“Hey, Rule #3, right?” Martin said softly, a gentle hand spurring him into movement before he had even realised he had stopped. There was something cold and wet on his cheeks, easily wiped away and ignored. 

“Yeah, right,” Jon shook his head and smiled at him, “Now, about that poem?”

“Right! Uh, this one is by Mary Oliver, Basira recommended her to me,” Martin’s enthusiasm dimmed a little at the mention of their friend’s name. 

“Yeah, I think I heard Daisy say something about,” Jon shows away from the memory. The two of them, sitting crossed legged and giggling as they leant against his desk. She’d said Basira liked poetry, and Jon had recited some of Martin’s and Daisy had teased him for it. 

Jon didn’t wonder where she was now. He didn’t want to Know. 

“My favourite of hers is this one called Wild Geese,” Martin took a deep breath and recited it, voice soft in the overwhelming noise of things. Jon clung to it like a drowning man, letting it wash over him - it was better than any rib or tape recorder. 

“...no matter how lonely, huh?” Jon said quietly, kissing him on the cheek. Martin laughed and teasingly swatted him away. 

Rule #1 had been that Jon was a big softy at heart. It had been written by all of the assistants, grinning fondly as they did. It was Jon’s favourite too.

_A hundred miles, huh? I can manage that. But it’s not going to be a repentance_ , Jon thought, no matter how close to a lie those words that felt like.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! thank you for reading, and feel free to leave any criticisms you have in the comments, or talk to me at @lesbianbirds on tumblr.


End file.
